About five years ago, while visiting them in New York City, the little boy came in, walked over to me and said: “You know, Neville. I feel that if I could turn around I would see who I really am. I know I am wearing a mask and I can’t wait to die, cause then I will turn around and see my true identity.” His mother was a very poor girl who married wealth, and anything relative to death frightened her. The thought of losing her diamonds, her home, and all of her possessions, scared her to death, so she was upset when the child spoke of death. No doubt having grown up in the meantime, the boy’s attention has been diverted; but that is what he told me five years ago.903 ¶9